


Melt Me, Mold Me

by BirchBow (chaoticTenebrism)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harem, Ambiguous Relationships, Kink Meme, Multi, Pale Harem, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTenebrism/pseuds/BirchBow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve never been one for the ridiculous decadence that some of your fellow rulers go for—even when you crush another petty regime and the warlord’s possessions pass over to you, it’s rare for you to take on a troll from one of their harems.  You’re picky.  And it serves you well, because when your pale mates look up, from books and art and water and instruments, and see you, even though their names are kept secret (none of your concern, you have taught yourself not to wonder even though you want to know so badly sometimes) every single face is one you would trust with your life.</p><p>Kink Meme Prompt: Warlord Karkat, and his harem of pale concubines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melt Me, Mold Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 
> 
> Ancient Alternia AU. Troll-character-of-your-choice is a powerful warlord who keeps a large pale harem. Collapsing into a warm, snuggly pile of pale concubines is simply the best way to unwind after a long day.

You know it’s time to retire for the day when you start to draft a letter to one of your neighboring empires and it starts NOW LISTEN THE FUCK UP, YOU DISEASED PILE OF ANIMAL WASTE.  It takes everything you’ve got to pry yourself away, too, because that was going to be such a  _good_  letter, it would be everything you’ve been wanting to say to that bastard since you started trading with them a sweep and a half ago, but you force yourself to put the pen down and slide your chair back.

You need a break.  You need to indulge a little.

But you’re too tired to slip in through the heavily-guarded doors painted with a scarlet heart, or the pitch-black spade door behind its curtain, and you’re the fucking emperor, you don’t need an ashen intervention with this troll.  You would rather march on his kingdom and squash him like a bug than go pitch for him.  You’ve never actually heard of an emperor with an ashen harem at all, stupid idea, like demanding trade re-negotiations on a perfectly generous trade arrangement with a country that’s at least ten times bigger than you and telling the ruler he can’t be expected to know, considering his age and his lack of noble blood color because you would have to be a MORON to do that, right, you would—

  
You just need.  To  _relax._   (Deep breaths, Vantas.)  
  
The fourth door is your favorite anyway.  
  
The hallway is dark and quiet and the floor is soft under your feet, soothing already.  Somewhere, water is trickling gently.  Someone past the end of the hallway is singing, a song you remember from when you were a wriggler, and the tension is starting to ease out of your shoulders even before you step through into the soft, red-gold light.  
  
You’ve never been one for the ridiculous decadence that some of your fellow rulers go for—even when you crush another petty regime and the warlord’s possessions pass over to you, it’s rare for you to take on a troll from one of their harems.  You’re picky.  And it serves you well, because when your pale mates look up, from books and art and water and instruments, and see you, even though their names are kept secret (none of your concern, you have taught yourself not to wonder even though you want to know  _so badly_ sometimes) every single face is one you would trust with your life.  
  
They see something’s the matter immediately.  Some of the newest, lower on the pecking order, run to get the pile ready.  The others—the longest-there, the ones who know you best—come forward and wrap their arms around you instead, some warm, some cold.  Anchoring you.  
  
“ _Do you want to talk about it_?” a voice murmurs in your ear, and someone is already dragging their claws in slow, gentle circles over your back, a cool hand is messing with your hair.    You shake your head and they make tender noises, sympathetic chirrs and little sad chirping sounds that you know, now, are genuine.  When you overthrew your predecessor, when you were learning how to deal with the idea that you had a fucking  _harem_ , like a  _king_ , which you  _are_ —you didn’t believe them.  You don’t think  _they_  believed them.  The previous warlord was not kind to anyone who couldn’t soothe his worries as well as he wanted them to, and they were as wary as you were, for all they hid it better.  
  
Now you know that they mean it when they hold you, and the knowledge that so many people care about you  _so much_  makes the hot, sick knot of anger and stress in your guts dissolve a little.   
  
"I just need to lie down,” you tell them, and someone helps you out of your shirt, rubbing at the stiff muscles in the back of your neck just hard enough that you groan and sway.  Some of the vacillators are coming through the doors from the other rooms now—they seem to know the instant they see the knot of people gathered around you what you need and what to do.  Maybe there are signals they give each other, maybe there are messages.  You’ve never asked.  Whatever they do here, in these houses, their secrets are their own.  Your way of life is not theirs and theirs is not yours.  “Yeah, keep doing that,  _ahh_  wow…”  
  
“Been practicing,” someone confides in your ear, and the hands on the back of your neck go loose and open, palms rubbing slow circles across your back.  It feels unbelievably amazing.  You whimper a little bit by accident and they’re so pleased with that, they all squeeze you and murmur their own devotion against your skin.   
  
“Do you know who it is you would like, my lord?”  Asks another voice, higher and sweeter, and her hand strokes your hair.  None of them touches your horns yet ( _god_  you want them to but you have to tell them what you want, you’ll never be able to get your thoughts together if someone starts rubbing your horns).  “Anyone in particular?”  
  
You’ve never been one for ridiculous decadence.  But there are three warlords posturing and strutting up and down your borders.  But there are five others pushing quadrant-locks at you, trying to force their way into your inner circle through their most prized slaves and possessions.  But you’re still only eleven sweeps and you’re ruling the hugest, fastest-growing territory anyone has ever scrawled on a map and you’re terrified of the fall that has to happen, someday.  But just for today…  
  
“… _all_ of you,” you order hoarsely, and they hum and murmur in pleasure and sympathy.  Someone has already started to purr, a loud, throaty, unabashed sound that you know as well as your own heartbeat.  “I’m going to—to break at the seams, there’s too much—I can’t—”  
  
“You  _can_ ,” they whisper to you, and you’re being led off into the warm dimness.  You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, you’re already melting out of yourself.  “ _You’ll be okay, you’ve led us so well, we’ll talk about it, let us help you…_ ”  
  
They help you down into a pile of something warm and soft, curling around you, reaching over each other for a chance to just hold on to you.  There’s a harmony of purring, sweet noises all around you, people stroking your face and your hair and your horns and you close your eyes, let the pure sensation wash over you, and finally allow yourself to let go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gotta Like What You Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197623) by [silverpaper_toffeepaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverpaper_toffeepaper/pseuds/silverpaper_toffeepaper)




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